Letters to You
by whitchry9
Summary: Sherlock asks John to write letters to him, but they both know that's not why he does it. Rated for language. WARNING: Feels abound.


I feel stupid doing this, because right now you're laying on the couch in your typical position, all sprawled out and hands clasped beneath your chin. You could be asleep, but you're not. I can tell, because I've studied you when you're actually sleeping. It's so rare and you sleep so deeply. I've done experiments of my own. Are you surprised?

You shouldn't be. It's hard to live with you for so long and not pick up on some of your habits. At least it's not the keeping dead body parts or shooting the walls. I figure I'm doing good.

You're stirring. I should probably prepare you a cup of tea, considering you haven't eaten anything all day and I really don't want you to pass out when you throw yourself off of the couch, mad with a deduction or some sort of experiment.

Oh. Too late.

* * *

You told me to do this for your sake. I thought it was stupid, but you insisted. You have a way of doing that, wearing people down until they give in for exhaustion.

It's kind of endearing really. I know you care about someone if you work hard enough to wear them down to a smooth surface instead of just sharpening their jagged points. You're like sandpaper, rough and abrasive, but can be used to make beautiful things. Or emphasize jagged souls.

I'm glad you chose to mold me into something better rather than just sharpen my points and spear yourself on them.

* * *

I had to pick you up off the floor this morning after you passed out, having been on a case for a week, with no more than six hours of sleep throughout the whole thing. You literally melted into the floor, barely getting in the door and your scarf off before just... dropping. It would have been almost funny if I hadn't been so panicked.

You were just a big black puddle with limbs sticking out at all angles. And you know, for someone who never eats, you are ridiculously heavy. Maybe it's the coat. Or the ego. Or all those brains in that big head of yours.

I scooped you up and threw you into your bed. I'm pretty sure I have elbow shaped bruises in my ribs.

It's okay; I don't mind.

The things I do for you.

* * *

Is there a fucking point?

And I'm not just talking about this, writing to you, but life in general. I mean, what the hell?

Because I don't see it.

And it's not even like I can talk to you about it, because you just mutter on about the idiocy of religion when that's not what I'm getting at.

I know you don't care for religion, and I wasn't going to make you talk about that. I wanted to know what you thought we were supposed to live for. Love? Success? Happiness?

You always seem to have the answers.

I suppose that's why you didn't want to talk about it. You don't have the answers.

* * *

Decline is inevitable, everyone knows that, but does it have to be a fucking cliff? Can't it be some sort of rolling hill, a gentle slope, something that you have to get down on your hands and knees to indeed see that it's not level.

I wasn't ready for you to be clinging to the side with only my hand tethering you to keep you from falling.

That's a hell of a lot of pressure to put on a man Sherlock.

* * *

Mrs Hudson came round the other day and you forgot her name. Just stood there looking at her, completely terrified at what was happening.

I didn't know who to comfort first, her or you.

* * *

You're getting worse now. Hardly make any sense when you're conscious. Which is getting rarer and rarer.

It would be funny if it wasn't so heartbreaking.

I suppose that's how a lot of things are. That's why people sometimes laugh when they want to cry, or cry when they want to laugh. They can't help it. The two are inexplicably linked, whether we like it or not.

Perhaps we have an inborn reflex to try to cheer ourselves up.

It's not working.

* * *

Oh god. I can barely type now through all the bloody tears.

I don't know why I'm still doing this. There's no point now, is there?

Wasn't the point for me to write these for you so you would know what happened? When it was all over and done with, the weeks and months that had gone missing, the time that was spent unconscious, slipping in and out of lucidity, could be remembered.

And there's no point now is there?

Because you died. You just died and I'm sitting here typing this, dripping on the keyboard. I hope I'm not making typos, because I really can't see. I know you'd hate that.

And I know I probably can't wreck the computer with the water damage, but I'm still stupidly thinking that maybe, just maybe, I could, and that I should stop before that happens.

I just don't know.

* * *

Of course we both knew the whole time that this wasn't for you.

Ever since the beginning, we both knew, somewhere deep and dark where secrets live, we knew that this was for me, because you weren't going to make it.

And yet we kept up the illusion, because it hurt less than the truth. And look at me. I'm still writing to you.

Because, as you once told me, I'm an idiot.

* * *

People are excellent at lying to themselves. Much better than at lying to others.

We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.

Thank you for that.


End file.
